Most people don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on a Sunday--at least, not if they can help it. Especially teenagers. Go on Facebook before noon and odds are it'll be deserted, nobody foolish enough to log on that early to chat.
Most people also don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain to run. Especially teenagers.
Which only goes to show the exhaustively-proven point that I'm not most people. Or most teenagers.
Yes, I admit it, I did get up at 8:13 (had to hit "Snooze" on the alarm clock twice), pull on a long-sleeved synthetic shirt and shorts, and slip out the door for a drizzling run. Nothing much, just a short warm-up jog followed by maybe ten hill repeats and another short jog back home. It was cold; the wind would pick up every minute or so and blast my drenched body, making me wonder if an air-breathing shirt was really a good idea that morning. Water beaded down my face and streamed down my neck, occassionally forcing me to blink and shake my head. I swear a quart of water would fly out of my hair every time I did this. But I noticed more than anything the serenity of the moment: the empty streets (only three cars on a normally busy nearby thoroughfare), the light harmony of the raindrops, the comforting shades of gray (always wondered, is it "gray" or "grey"?) in the sky... I loved it, soaking-wet and all.
Ironically, I hate running in the cold. My friends taunt me when it's seventy degrees, asking my opinion on the "really great weather" we're having at practice. They roll their eyes when I stand my ground and firmly declare my preference for warmer temperatures, ninety degrees with a slight breeze if possible, thank you very much. They laugh when I run stiff-legged, bemoaning the infernally cold (70-degree) chill that stiffens my muscles and prevents my legs from fully extending.
But last week I had my revenge.
It was Friday, the last period at school. Northern California was throughly socked in with thunderheads, with snow as low as several hundred feet above sea-level (I used to live in the foothills, and friends who still live up there are celebrating snow-days from school, lucky them). I faced the approaching dismissal with growing apprehension, for then I'd be out in the cold for about an hour, running in the rain and hopefully retaining the biological capability to have children. As the classrooms emptied and people streamed to their lockers, I changed in the bathroom and walked outside. As I went to put my stuff away, I passed a fellow cross-country team runner (the season had ended a few weeks ago, but I knew he was still training for the upcoming track season in spring). He took one look at my attire--laced New Balances, synthetic long-sleeved shirt I'd bought at at the high school Cross-Country State Finals in Fresno, and Cal-logo athletic shorts--and whistled softly. "You going out today?" he asked. I nodded and asked if he was. "Hell no, man! It's too cold!" he replied. Shaking his head in wonderment, he left waving goodbye. Despite the cold, I laughed; here I was, the guy who hated running in the cold, being told by this other guy, our team leader no less, who'd run in far worse conditions than this paltry rain, had just told me it was too cold. Grinnig and shaking my own head, I turned and left for the trail.
Why do I bring any of this up? Oddly enough, poetry. And before those of you who read the last post flinch and groan in despair, hear me out. Personally, I think the weather is to blame. I haven't written a word of creative writing since, what, last summer? And now--BAM--twice in one month. Anyway, I was standing in the rain yesterday, having helped my mother put up holdiay lights (isicles and sasssenach--does anyone know how to spell that?), and my mind went into spiritual hyperdrive. There's something about the peace and solitude of a good rain, it just has a calming aura, a soothing essence. I can't really describe it, though not for lack of trying, as evidenced in "There's Something About Rain", below:
There's Somthing About Rain
There's something about rain:
The soft pitter of leaves,
The constant patter on concrete,
The concentric impacts in the puddles...
Heaven's floodgates readily lend
Themselves to quiet
Contemplation.
It's not much, but hey, I just ran at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain.
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